Flame of the West
by Snowy the Sane Fangirl
Summary: As the Fellowship departs Rivendell, Aragorn familiarizes himself with his new sword. Placed second in Teitho Challenge Weapons, June 2013


Flame of the West

Summary: As the Fellowship departs Rivendell, Aragorn familiarizes himself with his new sword.

Disclaimer: _The Lord of the Rings_ and the characters, names, places, and objects therein are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien and his heirs. No copy write infringement is intended and no monetary gain is made from this work.

Purpose: Teitho challenge June 2013: Weapons. Aragorn must have had some phase of unfamiliarity with Andúril between Rivendell and Eregion. This fanfic endeavors to explore that.

Rating: PG-13, for violence.

Characters: Elrond, Aragorn, Boromir, Sam, Pippin, Merry, Frodo, Gandalf

Genre: Adventure/Friendship

Book-verse

A/N: The first and second scenes are based on the similar scenes from the movie; however, they are not intended to be the same scenes.

_"For rulers are not a terror to good works, but to evil…. But if you do evil, be afraid; for he does not bear the sword in vain; for he is God's minister, an avenger to execute wrath on him who practices evil."_

_~Romans 13:3a,4b_

_"The Sword of Elendil was forged anew by Elvish smiths, and on its blade was traced a device of seven stars set between the crescent Moon and the rayed Sun, and about them was written many runes; for Aragorn son of Arathorn was going to war upon the marches of Mordor. Very bright was that sword when it was made whole again; the light of the sun shone redly in it, and the light of the moon shone cold, and its edge was hard and keen. And Aragorn gave it a new name and called it Andúril, Flame of the West."_

~J.R.R. Tolkien, _The Lord of the Rings:_ Book 2, Chapter 2: _The Ring Goes South_

"When first I delivered these to you, eight-and-sixty years ago, you had only just come of age by the reckoning of your people. But now you are a man, great and wise in your own right, and I bequeath the heirloom of your house to you anew. May you bear it to good fortune, Heir of Elendil!" Evening shadows fell about Lord Elrond's face as he said these words, lending him an almost ethereal appearance. Aragorn son of Arathorn let his eyes drop from his foster father's face to the sheathed sword the elf-lord held, hilt extended toward him.

"Long have I born the shards of Narsil," the Chieftain of the Dúnedain said. "Other weapons have I used, and other weapons my father and his father before him used, even back to the days of Isildur himself."

"Yet even so," said Elrond, "you shall bear the Sword Reforged, for such is your fate, that the return of the King to Gondor and Arnor shall be in your time, or not at all."

Aragorn gazed at the familiar hilt, the same one he had worn at his side for so many long years, before grasping it and drawing the weapon from its scabbard. He held it up and watched as the last light of day struck it, transforming the uplifted blade into a pillar of red fire. Droplets of bloody light, reflecting off the keen metal, danced upon the faces of Aragorn and Elrond. As the Sun set behind the rim of the valley that hid Rivendell, the flame seemed to die. The man lowered the sword and the flawless blade glinted in the now-diminished light. The runes etched in the Elven-smiths' work could now clearly be seen. On the smooth metal near the hilt lay the emblem of the rayed Sun, and three-quarters of the way to the tip was another image; this one of the crescent Moon. Between them lay many elvish runes. A cold, deadly light now gleamed on the blade where it tapered to its point.

"I have seen but few weapons the like of this," Aragorn said, "and it is an honor to bear it. But it is not Narsil."

"Nay," said Elrond. "As the Sword-that-was-Broken has been remade, so shall it be renamed."

"Then it shall be Andúril, the Flame of the West!" cried Aragorn. "It shall stand for the West against the fires of Mordor, and may it burn the hotter!"

Elrond was pleased with the name the man had chosen. "Bear it to victory, Aragorn son of Arathorn," he replied, "with the goodwill of all the free peoples of Middle-earth!"

* * *

"Six! Four! Eight!" Boromir's voice rang through the small dell the Company sheltered in, muffled by the sound of the wind howling overhead. The son of Denethor was teaching Samwise Gamgee some basic parries. Though the hobbit took to the task eagerly and had remarkable skill, all things considered, his discomfort with the short barrow-blade he bore was evident. Aragorn watched, having finished drilling Frodo in the same area only minutes before. Normally the Company would not have risked so much noise in the Wild, but today they had been fortunate to find a deep and wide hollow that the wind screeched over loudly enough to disguise even the distinct sound of clashing steel.

As Aragorn was about to turn away, he saw Sam miss a parry and cringe as Boromir's blade halted mere inches from his terrified face. "That's enough for now, Sam," Boromir said, not unkindly. "You'll be able to hold your own in a fight. Most Orcs don't have nearly as much skill."

"Perhaps you should spend some time familiarizing yourself with your sword, Sam," Aragorn advised the halfling. "It is not a poisonous snake, as you seem to think by the way you are holding it."

"But Strider," Pippin's impertinent voice piped up, "that's how you hold your sword."

"Is it?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow at the youngest hobbit.

"No," Merry interjected. "More like a musical instrument he doesn't know what to do with, Pip."

Aragorn's other eyebrow crept up to join the first. He looked to Frodo for support, but the Ring-bearer merely shrugged from where he was seated on a wide rock. "You haven't had it for very long, after all," the eldest hobbit observed.

Gandalf laughed. "It seems they are all set against you, Aragorn!" he said. "Will you prove them wrong?"

"And how am I to do that?" Aragorn asked.

Gandalf turned to the only other man in the Company. "Boromir," he inquired, "Would you consent to a friendly duel?"

"I-" Boromir began, but Pippin did not wait for him to finish.

"That's good then!" the irrepressible hobbit exclaimed. Turning to his cousin, he added, "Merry, I'll bet you three silver pennies Boromir can beat Strider."

"I'll take that bet and up it one," Merry replied grimly.

Suddenly, and before either man knew what was happening, Aragorn had been pushed toward Boromir and there was nothing left for them to do but draw their swords. They saluted each other and then began.

Boromir took the initiative, advancing with a combination of attacks that Aragorn parried with relative ease. As he shifted Andúril in his hands to catch each blow, the Ranger got an idea for the weight of the sword. It was heavier than the weapons he was used to, and the hilt was larger than most, for though he had born the broken sword Narsil for many years, he had seldom had occasion to draw it. The blade, however, was surprisingly light compared to the hilt, and before he accustomed himself to it he nearly overshot several parries.

As the battle progressed, Aragorn steadily grew more comfortable with his weapon and began to press forward. Andúril was remarkably easy to handle for an experienced swordsman. Boromir slowly began to retreat under a sudden hail of attacks from the older man. Spectators and combatants realized that Aragorn would win if the trend continued. But the Gondorian he was dueling had one more trick up his sleeve. Lunging forward and feinting, he caught Andúril in a bind and flicked his own weapon to the side. This attack had never failed the Steward's son in its purpose of sending his opponent's sword flying, and Aragorn was caught off guard. The future king was passably familiar with the move, but he had not expected Boromir to know it, nor to be able to use it so effectively, as it had its roots in a distinctly northern style of elvish swordplay. However, Andúril did not leave Aragorn's grasp.

Perhaps it was the sword's comparatively light blade in contrast with its stout hilt, or perhaps it was for some other reason, but though the blade was flung to the side, momentarily exposing the Ranger's chest, the weapon remained in his hand. Boromir did not see this at once, which proved to be his undoing. He in no wise expected Aragorn's next blow, which struck his sword just above the hilt with such force that the blade was sent spinning from his hand. Andúril's point hovered near his chest for a bare second before Aragorn sheathed it and extended his hand. "A well-fought match," he said. Boromir shook the proffered hand, quickly recovering from his surprise at his sudden defeat, and congratulated the other man.

Then they were surrounded by the rest of the Company, each one commending both of them for the impressive display of sword work they had witnessed. Pippin grinned broadly. "That was amazing!" he exclaimed. "I've never seen anything like it!"

"I should hope not!" Gandalf replied to the hobbit. "You'll be hard put to find two more skilled with the sword among Men."

Merry approached his flabbergasted cousin. "Pippin," he said, "I hate to interrupt, but you do owe me four silver pennies."

Pippin gaped in dismay at Merry's open hand, and chuckles broke out as the Company realized that the young Took did not actually have four silver pennies; in fact, he probably did not even have three.

Merry shook his head in exasperation. "Pippin," he said in a not too annoyed tone of voice, "when are you going to learn not to gamble unless you can pay your due?"

The laughter escalated as Pippin's wide eyes sought out each person present in a desperate plea for help. It was a snickering Boromir who came to his rescue. "Here," he said, digging some coins from his pocket. "I do not know what this equates to in your Shire currency, but it should be enough. Consider it thanks for your confidence in my skill." He handed the coins to Pippin, who promptly handed them to Merry and then made his escape to the far edge of the camp, red as a beet.

As Boromir chuckled along with the others at Pippin's antics, Aragorn watched him closely. He had feared that the loss of the duel would embitter the Gondorian, whom he knew to be a proud man, but Boromir did not seem unduly bothered by it. Aragorn was glad of that, as he cherished no desire to have enmity between himself and the man who would be his steward, should he come into his own.

Still laughing, Merry handed the coins back to Boromir before he went to help Sam prepare their meal.

* * *

Aragorn was on first watch that day. As the others drifted off to sleep, he sat at the edge of the camp with his naked sword laid across his knees, peering outward and listening for any unusual sound over the loud wind. As time passed and nothing seemed amiss, he became more relaxed, though no less alert. Slowly he allowed his eyes to fall to the weapon cradled in his lap.

Andúril shone in the early morning sunlight that had only just made its way over the lip of the hollow the Company was bivouacked in. Aragorn examined the weapon for signs of its first heavy usage, but there were none. The sword remained as unblemished as it had been on the day it was presented to him. As the man ran his hands gently over the shining blade, he marveled at the weapon he bore. It was of unmatched quality, but beyond that, it was a sword he could use. Once he had fallen into the rhythm of the battle, Andúril had been so easy for him to handle it felt like an extension of his arm.

Aragorn was once more on watch a week later when the Company's camp was attacked by wolves. He stood with his back to the fire, holding his sword ready as he gazed uneasily into the dark. When the attack came, however, the Ranger's only warning was a grey wolfish shape in the shadows. He barely had time to shout a warning before the beast leapt over the boundary of stones and lunged at him with a feral snarl. Sinking into the battle mindset, the man readied Andúril and then thrust it forward into the throat of the warg. He then turned to deal with a second that had tried to approach him from the side.

Through a mist he became aware that the camp was overrun with the beasts. He dimly heard Gandalf shouting to the hobbits, but he paid no heed to his companions, save to be aware of their location, lest he harm them with a stray sword stroke.

A large warg charged him; he dodged to the side and brought his sword down in a two-handed stroke that nearly cleaved its head from its body. Leaping forward he then caught another unawares and finished it quickly.

Aragorn looked for another opponent, but the vicious beasts seemed loth to assault the warrior. Only one great wolf-chieftain came charging at him, howling out a challenge as he did so. The Ranger raised his sword to meet the enemy, but the warg twisted from the path of his first blow, then, lunging toward Aragorn, nearly sank his teeth into his arm. Andúril came to the rescue, its heavy hilt crashing into the beast's jaw. The creature sprinted away, but Aragorn saw it eyeing him with vengeance in its gaze as he caught his breath. The warg returned wrathfully and they clashed again.

Suddenly, Gandalf's voice rose above the fray. "Naur an edraith ammen! Naur dan i ngaurhoth!" the wizard cried, and abruptly the landscape was lit up with brilliant flames. A blazing arrow narrowly missed Aragorn and plunged into the heart of a large warg behind the one he was fighting. The Ranger's opponent saw this, and, hesitating only a second, turned to flee. He made it only five paces before Aragorn hefted Andúril and flung the weapon with all his might. It rotated once, shining in the red light, before it plunged into the heart of the warg. The beast fell heavily to the ground and did not rise again.

Quickly Aragorn drew a knife, but he saw at once that no enemies remained. Resheathing his weapon, he carefully scanned the darkness beyond the edge of the firelight for foes against the advent of another attack. Satisfied that the enemy was truly routed, he approached the body of his last attacker and grasped Andúril's hilt, drawing the sword free of the beast quickly and smoothly. The blood on the blade gleamed eerily in the light of the dying flames. Aragorn wiped it clean on the dry grass before holding it up to look upon it.

Yes, he decided, here was a weapon that would serve him well. It was a weapon he could wield for hours at a time without tiring, one that he could use either end of to deadly effect, and one that was perfectly balanced and that seamlessly melded with the fighting style he already possessed. In short, it was a weapon he could depend on. With Andúril he could stand against the forces of Mordor as the future king of the Reunited Kingdom with the Flame of the West in his right hand!


End file.
